Wolf and Fox
by Pat Squared
Summary: Lies and omissions have a way of comming back to bit one in the rear end. Shego's son must guard the daughter of the person he hates most in the world without letting anyone know that he is his mother's son.
1. Lies

**The Revenge Game **

**Prologue: Lies for the greater good. **

**By Pat Squared **

* * *

**DISCLAIMERS**

This is a work of literature with references intended for somewhat mature audiences.

If you cannot handle such, please read the rated K and K stories on the Website.

Yes, I do not own any rights to Kim Possible©. These are owned by Disney.

All I own is a few shares of a mutual fund that invests some of its funds in

Disney, which I will probably have to end up selling to pay for the copyright infringement lawsuits.

I did not make any money off this story.

**OTHER DISCLAIMERS**

NEVER have unprotected sex.

NEVER share needles.

DON'T stick any metal in the electrical sockets.

ALWAYS read the manual, paying attention to safety warnings.

NEVER mix alcohol or drugs with any task requiring concentration or operating heavy machinery.

DON'T even think about making at home porn or take nude pictures if you don't want them to appear on the internet or pop up when you are running for public office.

LADIES, that eagle tattoo on your tit will become a vulture as you age.

Guys even if she is wrong, she is ALWAYS right.

You can never say I LOVE YOU too much to your significant other and family.

**MOST IMPORTANT DISCLAIMER**

FAILURE TO REVIEW THIS STORY WILL RESULT IN ANOTHER WRITER'S STIKE!

_

* * *

_

Timeshare lair just north of the US Mexican Border

"Mom, why were the people so mean to the elephant man," asked six year old little Ricky.

"Wolves tear apart the wolves that are different from the pack," whispered his mother.

"But why do people…"

"Ricky-dear, people have two sides. G-O-D or D-O-G. The spelling is not accidental. God and dog are reflections. A dog is just a domesticated wolf. When bad things happen, what separates us from the wild goes away."

"Yes mom."

Ricky Go closed his green eyes safe in the knowledge that his mother would be around to protect his from the bullies.

However fate had a way of destroying innocence.

"SHEGO!" yelled the funny blue man with a bad smell.

Ricky never liked the blue man. There was something about him that made the little boy uncomfortable.

Besides _Uncle Drakken_ whined and squealed like one of those cute white lab rats with little pink eyes that were locked up in the blue man's latest invention. Mother beat up the blue man once for tying to use him as an _x-per-a-mental twest subject_.

Ricky learned his favorite swear words from that episode and other similar in his life.

Without opening his eyes, Ricky knew that his mother was biting his lips to avoid cursing. Mother could cuss up a storm, but she tried to speak properly in Ricky's presence. Not that she was always successful...

"Do as I say...not as I do. I don't want you to mess up your life like I messed up my life, kiddo" was his mother's favorite saying.

Ricky opened his eyes and vanished into the hidey-hole that his mother insisted be put in every lair since he was born. Inside this hole was an uninterruptable power supply, a microwave, a refrigerator stuffed with a month's worth of microwavable dinners, art supplies, a set of World Book encyclopedias, a small bathroom, and a small surplus army cot.

Ricky knew the drill.

Hide tight. The lair will collapse and his mother would come by in a week or so and dig his out of the rubble. Until then, Ricky was to take care of himself and finish reading the next volume. Mother would then quiz the six year old on the way to the next time-share 

lair. Having a mother with a teaching credential meant being stuck at a school year-round without sick days.

However, Ricky was like his mother...he did not always obediently follow the rules.

He hacked into the camera and watched what was happening in the main room.

The blond haired boy who loses his pants and the red-head girl were fighting. The red-head girl and his mother were sparing. It was a pretty even match. However, between the blond boy and the pink rat, somehow the self destruct was activated. It was Ricky's clue to get in the hole.

Ricky took one last look at the monitors.

The red-hair kicked his mother in the chest. His mother bounced against the rail. Then his mother collapse. His mother was not moving. But the red-head and the blond ran away.

Ricky did not run to hidey hole. He ran to his mother. At six, Ricky was not strong enough to drag his mother to the hole.

Ten…nine…eight…

"Ricky Go get into that hole now."

His mother was weakly pushing his to the hidey-hole.

Ricky did not want to go. Nevertheless, his mother gave an order and Ricky dove into the hole and sealed the door as he was taught.

The computerized voice droned on and the roof collapsed.

The six year old knew that mommy was not going to be able to save him this time. He knew that he no longer 

had a mommy. For a six-year-old already without a daddy, that meant the end of the world.

* * *

Dr. Betty Director watched.

The hazmat/salvage crews delicately moved the heavy concrete slabs. The small ones were a ton. The big ones…that are why there was a union demolition crew armed with hacksaws and sledgehammers at the site of the former lair. Dr. Drakken's fondness for chemicals precluded the use of high explosives or any machinery that could throw off sparks.

_Why does Ron Stoppable seem to leave so much destruction behind? You would think that he would learn how to defeat Drakken without pressing the self-destruct button. The demolition bills are making me run over budget every month._

It was the self-destruct button that made it hard to prosecute the blue skin college-dropout. All they could bust Drakken on was the possession of high explosives and hazardous chemicals without the appropriate permits. Even now, Drakken was speaking to his part-time attorney Hal Perkins who told him to sit tight and keep his mouth shut. Even the Environmental Protection Agency threw up their hands dealing with the want-to-be mad scientist.

Suddenly shouts of alarm told Dr. Director that this was no ordinary savage operation.

Dr. Director made her way to the sight. The stones were bloody. There was a strong acidic coppery taste in her mouth from the stench of decay.

It was once a human. Now the mass of flesh resembled a cubist painting that only Picasso and Salvador Dali's combine imaginations could devise. The only thing 

holding the flesh together was a green and black jumpsuit

Ton of concrete crashed the infamous Shego. Her criminal days were permanently ended.

The blood bubble coming out her nose and mouth told Betty Director that the former superhero was alive for now. Her limbs were crushed and twisted. Amputation was the only hope for keeping the villainess alive. Shego was not going to be stealing anything for Dr. Drakken anymore.

Dr. Director did not know whether to be sorry or be giddy with relief.

With Shego gone, Drakken would not escape the jailhouse anytime soon.

_Maybe this time the EPA will be aggressive in thier investigation_.

* * *

Doctor Free Love Hewitt, M.D., PhD hated her name. Between hippy parents and a career in psychology, it seemed life was one big comic prankster who spent all his time tormenting her. However, despite how much she hated treating nutcases, she was too good to quit the head-shrinking gig. She would be the first to confess that she was long past burnout.

Hewitt examined the charts.

_Shelia Go, age 27, freelance mercenary/thief._

Hewitt shook her head at the X-rays. She had seen people die from a lot less. Not even her mentor, Dr. Anne Possible, could fix this mess.

She went over the medical records.

Then it hit her.

_Stretch marks…where is the OB/GYN report._

Hewitt pulled up the X-rays. It had been two decades since she last worked an OB/GYN rotation as an intern, but even she could read the signs of childbirth in the damage done to the former mercenary's pelvis. There was a natural birth. Hewitt then made a phone call.

Two days later, Dr. Hewitt had an answer. Not the answer her patient needed, but an answer. Shelia Go's efforts at human reproduction had failed. The child was dead. And in her condition, Shelia Go would never have another.

Hewitt approached the frozen quadruple amputee.

"Shelia, I need you to listen to me. Your child is…dead. They found his body under all the rubble. It was quick,"

The lower lip trembled and the eyes watered, but the patient was still.

Suddenly, the steel façade that was Shego melted. Even missing her limbs, there was something that made you believe that she would strike fear into the hearts of men again. Now, the iron will...the spirit of aggressive independence that made Shego a force of chaos now evaporated. Dr. Hewitt just watched her patient give up the will to live. The body would follow the mind into the grave.

* * *

Dr. Director put down the phone.

_It's better this way._

It was not the first time she destroyed a life for the greater good. It would not be the last.

Now she had to find the kid and salvage him from a life of crime.

* * *

Sergeant Eduardo Garcia scanned the horizon with his 8x56mm Steiner field glasses.

The heat of the midday sun was literally bending the air. When he looked at the ground, he would see the reflection of the sky…a mirage. For most, mirages were just illusions. For Sergeant Eduardo Garcia, mirages were the tool that allowed him to scan the winds at two hundred meter increments.

Hitting a 4-foot diameter target at 2,500 meters was one part skill and three parts luck. Having made a dozen such shots in Afghanistan, the tribal enclaves of Northern Pakistan, Iraq and Iran, it was now Sergeant Garcia's turn to pass on the skill to Lance Corporal James Foster.

After laboriously entering the wind speed and direction into the handheld ballistic computer, Sergeant Garcia triple checked the figures. A two-mile per hour or ten degree error and your bullet will be hitting something in the next county rather than your target.

"Aim at the bottom right corner. I will dial you in."

Garcia pasted his eyes to the 120X powered Leupold spotting scope.

Bang.

The bullet was on its four second flight to impact. Miraculously, the first round hit the target. Usually it takes three or four to walk the rounds into the target.

"Six inches off at the 10:30 position. Target down."

Suddenly a dark figure fell out from behind the target.

"Cease fire…cease fire."

The figure was lying on the earth...not moving.

"Don't move, Foster. Call Sugar Six Six and tell the gunny that we have a possible fatality."

It was not the first time that illegal aliens from Mexico tried to sneak through Camp Pendleton live fire range. Death was a risk even for well equipped Marines, let alone illegal aliens that walked into the off-limits zone. However, these were mainly due to stumbling against an old mortar dud from the Vietnam era or poor planning dealing with Mother Nature. This was the first time in two decades that some illegal was shot by a Marine.

Garcia started jogging towards the target. Twenty five hundred meters was further than a mile. What took a fifty caliber round seconds would take far longer on foot.

Six minutes later, he spotted the kid.

The child was sunburned with dark hair. The clothes were ripped.

Thankfully the kid was not hit by the main projectile. No...it was the sprawl. At twenty five hundred meters, the 750-grain bullet did not have enough kinetic energy to penetrate the one-inch thick armor place. However, there was more than enough energy transmitted through the plate to have pieces of metal sprawl or splinter off the backside of the plate. That was why the inside of tanks have a special lining to prevent metal from ricocheting around when hit by a rocket.

The child was small, weak, and emaciated like he had not ate for weeks. A moan told the sniper that the kid was still alive.

"_¿Como se llama?_"

"Water please," was the kid's only reply. The accent definitely was not Mexican.

Garcia opened a package of Gatorade powder and poured it into his canteen. He swirled it around and let the kid slowly sip the liquid. Too much too fast and the kid would vomit.

"What's your name, son?"

"_Reekay_," was the weak reply before the kid fell unconscious.

* * *

"What's your name?"

It seemed that was all they could say.

The child had a name. He knew he had one and he knew what it was. However, he remembered what his mother told him.

"_If they find out who you are, they will do to you what they did to me. They will put you in a cage and tell you that you are to serve those who can't take responsibility for themselves. Promise me that you will never tell them who you really are."_

The boy remembered his mother's lessons. He did not want to live in a cage and treated like the Elephant man.

"Ricky."

"_Hola_ Enrique. Do you have a last name?"

The boy shook his head.

"Do you have parents? A mommy...daddy?"

_Do not let them know who you are! _

Instincts kicked in. While he could not explain the reasoning, he knew that the best way to lie was to give only half the truth. It rarely worked with his mother, but worked all the time with the blue man.

"Bye bye...Mommy went to heaven."

The ones in white coats kept asking him questions. In the end, the boy just closed his eyes and started sleeping.

* * *

Doctor Betty Director watched the videos of Shelia Go's interrogations.

Once broken, Shelia Go did not resist. She could not resist. She simply was mentally somewhere else most of the time. When she was here, it was far too easy to get answers. All they had to do was show her something that triggered the memories of her child.

In the end, it was merciful to simply turn her over to her brothers.

_Why stick the taxpayers with the cost of housing her, feeding her, and changing her adult diapers?_

Dr. Director looked at the folder in her hands.

Some marine sniper found the kid wandering lost in the hills of Camp Pendleton. DNA tests confirmed the child was Shego's. DNA also confirmed the identity of the birth father.

Dr. Director shook her head.

The child had won the genetic lottery when it came to villainy. His parents were all too effective when it came to being bad. His mother was bad enough. His father was Dr. Director's worse nightmare. Even now the memory of his father's abilities gave Dr. Director the 

chills. For a lady who was use to dealing with the worst of the worst...

_Think happy thoughts, Betty. You got the kid out before he was set on the path. He has talents that maybe we can use for the better good._

Much like Dr. Director and her twin brother did. With a father who was a button man for the Chicago Outfit and a mother who still serving multiple life sentences for being one of the world's more active hit-women, it was a miracle that Dr. Director did not end up in the family business.

The director knew that often what separated the worst villains and the best cops was a simple choice. Her twin brother and she were textbook examples. She ran Global Justice. He tried to run the World Wide Evil Empire or whatever he is calling it this week. Gemini was dropped one too many times on the head to be a functional villain.

Betty wondered often just how far she had fallen. She had made her decision for the greater good. Shego's child had potential. She was now going to mold the child into her next best agent.

For now, she would let Sergeant Garcia and his wife raise the little tyke.


	2. Arrival of the Fox

**The Revenge Game**

**Arrival of the Fox**

**By Pat Squared**

* * *

Kimberly Ann Possible Stoppable examined the patient's chart.

_Of all the patents in the world, why did she have to roll in my door?_

According to the file, Parole GJ-2007-004591SG was released due to psychiatric issues and the fact that a quadruple amputee was not any threat to society. Like Kim, the parole was entering middle age. However, unlike Kim, the parole was just going through the motions of life.

Kim looked over the file and examined surveillance footage from the hospital.

The phosphorus image of Shego just merely stared off into the distance. She did not even respond when another patient assaulted her and nearly beat her to death before the staff could intervene. It seemed that the former superheroine turned mercenary had a smile on her face prior to blacking out from the blows.

Kim looked down at the family photo on her desk.

It was taken twelve years ago. Elyse was five and learning how to snowboard. Ron had managed to keep up with their daughter down the double black diamond slope, but Kim's must have used up her luck in her childhood missions because she had later broken a leg on the slopes.

Kim returned her attention to the file.

Shego would never have a memory like that.

Kim had read about the death of Shego's child. She knew exactly why the fiery spirit was gone. While Kim never lost a child, the thought of losing her own child sent a wave of pain through her own soul.

Now Kim had to review the files. As the reviewing psychologist, she had the power approve or deny the continuation of a prisoner's parole. She of all people had every reason to hate Shego, but life had already dished out more than enough punishment for any one person to deserve.

_No matter what your crimes, you did not deserve to see your only child die._

Kim stamped approved on the appropriate paperwork and initialed the right box. She then called the appropriate parole officer and told them that the parole would be extended for another two years before another reevaluation would be required. She watched as Hego, in his Bueno Nacho manager's uniform wheeled his sister into a minivan for the ride back home.

Kim wondered for a minute what she would do if someone took her child away from her.

_But for the grace of God go I._

Kim had left the teen superhero business the moment she found herself pregnant.

Saying that teenage pregnancy was rough was an understatement.

To make things worse, Ron was acting weird.

It was like the Zorpox incident, but Ron's newly emerging dark side made Zorpox's dreams of stealing the world's supply of Naco's look like an episode of the Care Bears or Smurfs. It took five months, being put number one on the FBI's and Global Justice's Most Wanted List, a worldwide manhunt, hundreds of millions of dollars in damages, and a rebuilt attitunator before the authorities to haul Ron in. He was stuck in a jail cell in some third world country awaiting extradition back to the US when Kim gave birth to their daughter.

In the States, prison doctors found the tumor in Ron's head. No one knew if it was just the odds or a result of all the times Ron got zapped by some ray-gun. The pair were in the hospital. Ron lost all his hair from the chemotherapy and radiation treatments. Kim suffered complications after her pregnancy due to a structural issue with her pelvic bones. After claiming all the leftover Naco royalty checks for attorney's fees and civil damages, Ron's lawyers managed to get the charges against Ron dismissed saying that it was the pressure of the tumor that drove Ron crazy.

Kim looked at her watch.

Today was the anniversary of that special day that changed her life.

Ron was still well-hung and did not need Viagra to keep performing all night long. However it was different. Ron has lost something along with the tumor. Kim's mother had warned of possible complications including personality change and memory loss. However, it seemed a part of his spirit was cut out. Ron was so laid back that at times Kim wondered if Ron's mother smoked whole acres of the reefer when she was pregnant with Ron.

Ron was so laid back that it was infuriating.

The old Ron seemed hyperactive and driven. This Ron was so mellowed out that he could not even work at a Smarty Mart or Bueno Naco.

Rufus and his many offspring were the only reason that Ron had a job. Ron was now a USDA cheese inspector. If 

Rufus or one of Rufus' dozen naked mole rat offspring turned their nose up at cheese, it failed. Ron had a secure government job so at least the monthly bills were paid. However, it seemed that Kim had two children to raise...Her daughter and her husband.

* * *

Enrique Garcia followed his step-father into the ranks of _Uncle Sam's Misguided Children_ the day after high school graduation.

Twelve years of growing up in the shadow of the Marine Corps taught Enrique the requisite survival skills. Four years paying the enemies of the United States midnight visits taught Enrique that man hunting was his calling. Enrique was the Wolf. No one ever got the drop on the young man and no target managed to evade him. A two thousand meter shot or close contact with bard hands, Enrique managed to send two dozen martyrs off to paradise or hell depending on one's theological view.

Enrique had finished turning in his deuce gear and his prized M40A1 rifle. No one would touch the rifle until it was FedEx'd back to the capable hands of the master gunsmiths at Quantico. There were only two people that Enrique would allow to touch his rifle and now it was time to send it off to number two. It was time for the barrel to be replaced. While it was good enough for making the six hundred yard shot on mountain goat or dall sheep, it was no longer shooting the one-quarter minute of angle groups that men in his chosen profession require.

"Sergeant Garcia, please report to the G-2 office."

The PA system made the Marine Corps base sound like a bad episode of _General Hospital_. Enrique shook his head before trotting off.

_Report to the G-2 office…Might as well announce the annual spook convention_.

Marines were good at keeping secrets from the outside world, but there was no such thing as a secret in the Marine Corps. Before he would even make it to the G-2 office, it would be scuttlebutt throughout God's beloved Corps that the Intel Winnies were sending out the Wolf to solve another problem.

Twelve minutes later, he was in a private room alone with some major wearing the name tag, 'Myers.' Enrique knew that Myers was not the guy's name and the guy was definitely not a Marine. San Diego, Paris Island, and Quantico all had a unique stamp that marked their alumni. This guy was self-conscious about being in uniform.

'Myers' was definitely not a marine, or even military.

It did not matter...NSA, CIA, or some other alphabet spook agency. They needed his kind to pull the trigger or laz the target for the smart bomb to visit through a window.

"Sergeant Garcia, do you volunteer for a classified mission of uncertain duration and extreme danger for the good of the country knowing that if you are caught the US Government will disavow all your actions?"

The speech always started this way.

It was like the recruiters for this line of work all attended the same bad acting school.

At least with Hollywood you got some cool guy like Ed Harris to say the dumb lines. If Eddie's hair was longer, he probably would be flipping an errant lock of hair out of his eyes in disgust at the plump _chairborne_ _warrior _sitting in front of him. You don't ask marines to volunteer...you tell them what beachhead you want 

taken and a due time and they will ensure that it is absolutely positively destroyed with time to spare.

"Yes major."

The guy definitely was not a marine. Marines always address superior officers as sir. Except for drill instructors, NCO's were always called by rank, but superior officers were always called sir. Any real marine officer would call him on the carpet for violating the code.

The guy was flapping his jaw. It was all civilian-speak. Not even Christians In Action or No Such Agency goons could sound so pathetic.

Eddie knew the spook game.

"_My name is John Smith and I am a plumber." Intel Weenies were all the same...just a bunch of little boys and girls with their cereal box decoder rings._

It would always be some guy with a swivel chair waist from some alphabet soup agency who needed someone like him to clean up their little mess. He knew his role on God's green earth. He was the attack dog kept on a really short leash. He was not the type that they wanted at home dating their daughters.

_Stop it Sergeant Enrique Garcia…the last time you dated a girl…crash and burn._

Crash and burn was perhaps the apt description of his love life.

Eddie was your typical heterosexual male. The problem was despite the bad boy act...girls always sought to get too close. They sought to find out about a past he sought to keep secret from the world.

Since the day his stepfather found him wandering in the desert of Camp Pendleton, Enrique Garcia had to keep 

everything about his life prior to that moment a secret. It was bad enough when they poked and prodded him. He knew that if they know who his mother really was...they would make him a 24-7 lab rat. Garcia had guarded enough labs in his time to know the end fate of the cute little white mice and bunnies.

It was better for mother to believe that he died rather than letting the others know that he was alive. He could not save his mother. He could not make things better for her. He never could make it up to her. He was useless as a son. He could not live with himself for letting mother get hurt because he was not good enough to obey her when she needed him to obey the most.

The pretend marine was droning on and on about nothing. Just about how some mission can help his country. The initial briefer never knew the real mission...they never did.

Eddie had enough.

"Sir, I accept. Give me seventy two hours to clear in-processing. VOCG some orders for me to go to the Pentagon. Then TDY me to some ROTC unit and then another TDY to some IG unit as a small arms locker inspector. No one ever calls the IG office."

"IG?" uttered the pretend Marine.

"Inspector General, Major. Imagine IRS auditors with no legal limitations on their power. No one wants to wake up the IG and get a surprise inspection."

Eddie was right. The guy never wore a uniform.

* * *

It was midnight in Paris.

The city of lights lived up to its name and the street was so well lit that wearing sunglasses at night was not so insane.

_No damn dogs. No damn dogs._

The young lady mentally chanted the mantra like the devout Catholic she was not would chant the rosary.

Paris and Buenos Aries vied for the title of the world's highest per capita dog ownership levels. The worst part was they were the little type that yapped at any disturbance. They had bravery rates on par with the stereotypical French soldier. So they would bark at anything...including the wind and the moon.

The problem was for a thief like the Fox, yapping dogs could interrupt her heist. Tonight's job was a simple retrieve and substitute.

Posing as an art and photography student, she had taken a 10.2-mexapixal photo of the subject using her trusty Nikon D40X DSLR camera last month. She then went to a FedEx Office, formerly FedEx Kinko's, sign and graphic center, and got a print on canvas. It would not fool an expert if the expert examined the painting, but it was good enough to fool casual onlookers.

The hardest part was digitally Photoshoping out the sheen of the bullet proof glass that protected the painting. She had the archaic Adobe CS-3 edition, but with a lot of patience nothing is impossible.

Tonight was the night. She had a two-hour window to enter the museum, make the switch, and get to the airport cargo terminal and back into her purloined FedEx flight crew uniform. She knew enough about the 787-cargo lifter edition to bullshit her way around the flight deck. She had already altered the schedules so that a Miss Vivian Swift was scheduled to fly as relief copilot. It was the end of summer. It was prime 

vacation time so the change of flight crew would just be another adjustment.

She looked across the rooftops through her fifth generation night vision goggles. Unlike previous versions, these did not alter depth perception. She studied the patterns of the moving lasers.

Time to dance.

She leapt across the roof not caring about the five-story plunge if she misjudge the gap.

It was not that she was fearless. That was far from truth. She had more than her shares of phobias, but she was focused on the prize. Fear just gave the adrenaline necessary to succeed. She felt alive. She would do anything to feel alive. Even though she would puke up the contents of her empty stomach when she got back to the States.

Money was just a gaming token in her mind.

The Fox leapt into the appropriate spot on the target rooftop.

The Fox bowed, tucked and rolled. She leapt, flipped, and spun through the air like the performers at the Circ de Solee. Two minutes and she passed through the impassable barrier. She striped out of her sneak suit and closed her eyes.

The Fox was as naked as the day she exited out of her mother's womb. While she left her exhibitionist streak behind with her '_See My Labootee'_ dance at age five, there was something erotic about being naked where you were not supposed to be naked.

The cool air gave her what Brit's dub the Bruce Lees...because he was the hard-assed Nip that kicked the shit out of Chuck Norris and everyone was afraid of 

Chuck. For Christ sakes, there was no races...just groups of cannon fodder he has not rendered black and blue and extra tender.

It was time to change into the spare security guard uniform and ugly wig. She reached into her messenger bag and pulled out a set of blue contact lenses.

The Fox became a chameleon.

* * *

Betty Director examined the dossier before tucking it back into her desk.

_Perfect marks, calm under fire, and able to work alone or in teams. The candidate was perfect…on paper._

A pair of green eyes looked right into hers.

"Sorry for the short notice, but you have been shanghaied by Global Justice. Normally we would have assigned you to our special operations unit. However, we need you for a special assignment."

"Yes, ma'am," replied the marine.

"Normally, I would call upon the Secret Service or US Marshal Services for dignitary protection personnel. However, bringing them in will only spook both the dignitary and the threat."

"Ma'am, I never was trained in dignitary protection. Maybe an embassy marine or even a Navy Seal would be better in…"

"No. I picked you for a reason. You have worked the other side. The problem is that everyone else is too old or too inexperienced. If you walk away, she will die.

Dr. Director opened another drawer, slid the photograph and dossier to the marine.

* * *

_This one almost makes you believe that there is a Santa Claus, Easter Bunny, and the Fountain of Youth._

He sat there staring at the lady who was trying to convince him that arsenic and cyanide were essential parts of every nutritious meal.

_Trouble starts with a capital T that rhymes with G that stands for Global Justice._

Enrique cursed his trick memory

He could recall minor things that he once heard in passing fifteen years ago, but had write down everything important or he would forget it. Now the refrain from the _Music Man_ was stuck in his head. The worse part was there were three extra syllables that did not belong trying to fit into the song. It was already giving him a headache when he had to focus on the important things. His attention had a tendency to wander off onto tangents. Mother said his father was like that. It got Enrique whomped by his step-parents and earned him two Purple Hearts, or better know throughout the Corps as enemy marksmanship medals. Enrique focused his attention on the old battle-axe.

"This will only be a temporary assignment...nine months. We have worked up a psych profile on the girl. We want you to get close. Become her friend. Protect her. Don't let her know that you are there to watch her."

* * *

The marine merely waited. His face was set in a bland mask worthy of a five-time World Series of Poker bracelet winner.

Betty Director knew that his instincts were telling him to walk away. However, he could not walk away. Betty Director knew everything about him. She knew that he 

was lying about not knowing his past. She knew that he was eaten up by the guilt of leaving his mother behind.

She was going to pay the cards.

"Mr. Garcia. Protecting this girl is perhaps every bit as important as the other missions you have accomplished. We ordinarily would just place her in protective custody and let Secret Service do their thing. However, intelligence suggests that Vivian Fox is in the area. I do not have to tell you just how high on the wanted lists Miss Fox resides. I need you to protect her while we spoof out Miss Fox."

The marine merely nodded.

"What are my mission parameters?"

Dr. Director looked at the young man, opened her drawer, and tossed him a package of condoms.

"Become her boyfriend. Hang out around her. However, do not hurt her feelings when it is time for you to break up and to return back to the Corps. Diddle her, I will kill you quickly. Knock her up, and I will emasculate you. Get her dead and I will personally extra-jurisdiction render your ass to the Egyptians and tell them to make you disappear very slowly and painfully. I look on her mother as my daughter and this lady as my granddaughter. I am giving you a free hand. Do what you must. But protect her from the Fox."

Even when Dr. Director tossed over the Trojan condoms, he did not flinch or blink. She had played poker against some of the best but even she knew that this marine played on a whole other level.

* * *

It was time to say goodbye to Paris.

The air was misty with the promise of just enough fog to take those pictures of lovers that tourists rave over.

All was right with the world.

The dogs did not bark.

The crickets chirped.

FedEx would deliver her packages on-time.

Just drop the package off in one of the twenty four FedEx Office's locations near the airport. With her purloined FedEx ID badge, she even got the seventy-percent employee discount. It was not uncommon for airline crews and FedEx employees to FedEx their vacation purchases rather than chance the airline baggage check-in system. With FedEx it would get there in one piece and on time.

FedEx moved just about anything...Priceless Ferraris, penguins, killer whales, M-16's for the military, and now the Mona Lisa. Too bad Fred Smith, FedEx founder and CEO, would never find out about the last shipment. The packages would fly out to Memphis, probably on the same plane she was hitching a ride back to the states.

She had shipped out her tools, a Monet, and two Renoirs via FedEx.

The extra art served two purposes. The first purpose was as a memento of tonight's great heist. Second, to distract the museum staff, security, and police investigators from the substitution of the fake Mona Lisa for the real thing. She wanted the trial to get cold before the French found out about theft of their precious painting. The French authorities would be looking for fans of French Impressionism...not some wealthy Italian count who was the descendant of the legendary Vincenzo Perruggia, the first great thief to steal the painting out of the Louvre. The count was paying her a king's ransom over a matter of family pride.

_Mona Lisa, Mona Lisa, men have named you…_

The Fox had pulled the impossible. She had stolen perhaps the most guarded painting in the world. As soon as the banks in Hong Kong, Seoul, and Luxemburg did their electronic funds transfer dance, she would have enough to live the rest of her days in idle luxury. Twenty five million Euros invested at a rate of ten percent was 2.5-million Euros per year. The economic consulting firm of Hung, Luo, & Wang would pay its taxes on time, employ a handful of 'wealth transfer specialists' who would do some legitimate work. There would also be two researchers who would spend the next four months tracking trends in the art market to find potential clients and their handle.

However, she had plans and a schedule to keep. In two weeks, she would transfer to a university and live out the life of a girl in a college town. Her plans were simple. She would lay low for six months. She would then do research for five. And then she would only work one night a year.

Too bad her next role would require her to get a cover job to fit in. The next FedEx badge she wore would be the real thing. In five days, she was going to attend her mandatory FedEx Office New Team Member Onboard training. After stealing the _Mona Lisa_, she would be trying to explain to idiots why double-sided transparencies are not a good idea.

It would not be so bad. She liked FedEx. It was better than big brown...the doofs there lost a very important book she spent three months acquiring. There is a very unhappy client still looking for the original "_Tries riches Heures du Duc de Berry._" She gave him the tracking number and told him to file a claim like all the other suckers who trusted a company who proudly wore brown and whose initials stood for U Piece of Shit.


End file.
